Sigh.
Sunday afternoon, 1900 in Toronto. The Canadian Immigration
Officer asks me where I came from. “Frankfurt”, I tell him, “although we are
actually travelling from England, but for some reason Air Canada sent us to Germany
first”. He cracks up, and stamps the forms, still laughing as he calls the next
person forward to his desk.
Monday, 0900 in Toronto. We’ve had a good sleep at the
Sheraton Hotel, which is actually located in the airport so no traffic to
contend with. Now we’re at check-in. The Air Canada lady says, “Where are you
going? Charlottetown? Are you sure? I can’t see that on here …”
“You’re joking, right?” I pull out my iPhone, with yesterday’s
e-mail from Air Canada inviting me to check-in early. Perhaps my tone is a
little brusque. I've been told that I can sometimes sound a bit like that.
“Ah yes, here it is. No need to be surprised”.
I explain the saga from yesterday, and she giggles, then
says she can understand why I sounded a bit upset. However, according to her computer, our plane is going to
leave on time today.
Monday, 1800 in Charlottetown. We’re home. So are all our
bags. The house is still standing. Our neighbour comes across the road to greet
us, laughing. “How was Frankfurt?”
The dog is happy to see us. There is still snow in the
garden, but the forecast storm has not yet appeared. I light the fire and make
a cup of tea. Suddenly I realize – everyone has laughed at the Frankfurt story,
but nobody has been surprised.
Travel in the 21st century, I guess – or perhaps
it’s just because it’s an Air Canada story?
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